


228 - Being a Catfish Roadie

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “Could I request a fic about y/n doing work experience as a catfish roadie and realizing it’s the job they want? You can include a romance with Van to make it better and him encouraging y/n to do what she really wants?” and “ reader and Van meet at one of catfish’s gigs because she is one of the new sound engineers in the crew and helps set up the mics & other equipment for them & Van starts asking questions & then out of the blue asks her out?” and “ you and van fight before he gets on stage, but then he sings hourglass(or any other catb song tbh, whatever fits in) and both of you start crying/get all emotional bc this song means so much on ur relationship and when he comes back you sort things out?”Mini-request of (like in the 7 video) Van in a near-lying position, guitar on his lap for @binksey





	228 - Being a Catfish Roadie

The fear was a late bloomer. All through high school, you were never very concerned with what others referred to as 'the future.' The here and now were what you cared about. Spending time walking through gardens, taking note of how all the different leaves and petals had their own texture and smell. Watching videos on YouTube over and over until you could build your own customised sound equipment that you'd sell to the shitty pop punk bands that formed in your music class. Scribbling out phrases and drawings in a notebook and being subsequently annoyed at your lack of artistic ability. So, when the whole senior year was given thick books with information about university courses and future pathways, it felt like a slap in the face.

Suddenly, every other person your age seemed to know what they were about and where they were going. They excitedly applied to study and travel and start their adult lives. Where the fuck had you been while they all made those big decisions? Face down in stacks of vinyl records? Sleeping whole days away in your bed, only getting up to explore the city by moonlight? What the fuck.

You spent two years after graduating high school working in cafes, then bars. It wasn't really what you wanted, but the thing is that you didn't know what you wanted at all. Aimless and increasingly concerned about 'the future,' you were starting to understand why your family were annoyed at you all the time. Then, a miracle. 

As you sat at the bar after your shift, picking already chipped nail polish off, someone sat next to you.

"Y/N, right?" he asked. You nodded cautiously, trying to place his face. Familiar, but not friend. "Yeah, we went to school together. Ah, think maybe chem or bio or something? And music, of course,"

"Oh! Yeah! Taylor, yeah? I sold your band all those pedals?"

"Yeah! Hey! How you been? What ya up to?"

It was weird to see Taylor all grown up at twenty-one. He'd grown out of his pop punk phase but was clearly still not letting his band dreams die. You made the fatal assumption that, like you, he wasn't doing much with his life. Therefore, you comfortably joked about doing fuck all. He nodded, understanding but not relating. He explained then that he was a lighting tech for a couple of bands.

"It's weird, actually, 'cause you remember how we asked you to make them red lights that would be timed to our guitars? And you said lights weren't your thing? Started to fuck about with it all then. So, thanks, I guess," he laughed.

"You're welcome. Wow. Lighting tech, huh? That's cool,"

"Yeah. Always figured you'd do sound tech or something. Never considered going and studying that?"

"God, no. Way too spacey to keep studying," you said with a shrug.

"You were so good at all that stuff though. And you were self-taught! Look, my friends are over there thinking I'm trying to pick up or somethin', so I've gotta go, but if you want, give me your number and you can come out to a show and see how it all works. Talk to the sound engineers and stuff, you know?"

The look on your face read as both shock, gratefulness, awe and apprehension. Taylor laughed and held his phone out to you.

"Thanks," you said, voice unsure.

"All good, Y/N. Whaddaya got to lose, you know?"

He left you with a hug and an opportunity.

…

For a couple of weeks, you bounced from gig to gig with Taylor watching everything with an interest and curiosity that you'd never felt before. People were more than happy to answer questions, the crew living for the attention you were giving them. 'The future' become the future, and you knew what it looked like.

Your family were not so sure, saying that being a roadie or sound tech or engineer sounded awfully unpredictable. No job security. No assurance of stable income. (Did they think you could work in bars forever?) It didn't matter to you. Supported or not, you were determined.

When you met another sound tech, one that you already knew the name of and all the bands she'd ever worked with, and she asked if you were "one of them tech intern kids," you immediately asked what she meant. 

"One of the labels does these internship type things for people wanting to get into the business. Think it's Communion, maybe? That's Ben's one, yeah? Anyway. You look like one of them, all fresh faced and here to learn," she said with a laugh.

After following her around all day, asking as much as possible without getting on her nerves, you went home and Googled the absolute fuck out of Communion. With references from Taylor and every other person you had met that took a shine to you, you applied. The spots were limited, but you had absolute faith that it was what you were meant to be doing with your life. It just had to work out. What else would there be?

…

In a warehouse, you met all the roadies and techs that toured with Catfish and the Bottlemen. They referred to you as Baby Tech and were happy to find you had more skills and abilities than most of the interns they'd worked with.

"Oh, thank fuck," Scotty breathed as he watched you not fuck up the cabling for sound versus lights. "I love Van. I get that he wants to help people as much as possible and lettin' you lot come on tour is part of that, but honestly, it's usually a fucking nightmare to begin with. Think you'll skip that though, yeah?"

"Uh… I will try… to skip the nightmare?"

"Taylor says you're smart and good at this. Been doing it since school,"

"Yeah. Just, like, what I could learn online though. I want to be better, be proper, you know?" you said back. He smiled and nodded.

…

You didn't meet the band until the first soundcheck. You'd travelled by van with the equipment and other techs to the venue first. There, you would all set up and run soundcheck and then check into the hotel. You tried to contain your excitement, but it had been such a quick turn-around from no dream to living it. The guys walked out onto the stage and greeted their friends and personal technicians with hugs and smiles.

Van jumped from the stage and crossed the empty venue floor to where you were at the sound desk. He pulled everyone he knew, everyone but you, into tight hugs. "Lids! Back at it!" he said with all the enthusiasm of a puppy at a park. He turned to you then and smiled. "Y/N?" he asked. You nodded and put your hand out. He laughed, took it but pulled you into a hug. "Happy to have you,"

"Happy to be here,"

"Baby Tech is doin' good already. Best we've had. Won't have to spend half our time fixin' mistakes," one of the other sound techs told him. Van looked at them, arm still around your shoulders.

"Baby Tech, is it?"

"No," you replied quickly but everyone else said yes.

"Yeah, heard good things about you, Baby Tech," he said, stepping away from the desk and walking backwards, pointing at you as he went. "Alright. Ready for this?"

Van raced across the floor, bounced onto the stage like it was easy to jump that distance and let Larry wrap a guitar around him.

…

You had honestly thought nobody was better skilled at asking a lot of questions in a short amount of time than you. Van McCann though, well fuck. As you set his mic up and ran leads along the edge of the stage in patterns that would allow for his erratic movements and disrespect for the mic stand, he followed you, talking non-stop. You answered his questions as you worked, glancing around to see if any of the other techs were annoyed at how slow you were going and hoping that they'd see it was Van's fault. Nobody seemed at all fussed though.

It became routine. Each soundcheck and set up would consist of you working around Van's lanky body and increasingly personal questions.

After a show, when the band were outside signing paper and taking photos, you thought about it a little too hard. Glassy eyes set on one spot, unmoving body, Scotty came over and waved a hand in front of your face. No reaction. He flicked your arm, pulling you from your thoughts.

"Fuck. Ouch. Sorry," you said. He laughed, shaking his head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just… thinking, or whatever. Yeah. Sorry. Um. I'll…" you said and went to move to do something useful.

"If you're thinking about Van, wondering if he does that with everyone, he don't. We reckon he's got a thing for you, Baby Tech. You're like, twenty-one or something?" he asked, to which you nodded. "Yeah, so you're around his age. You're pretty, but he's never really cared much about that, to be honest. He likes people that like what they do, you know? Work for it. Which you do. When this tour is done, you'll get more work easy. You like the same music as him, and you don't tell him to fuck off all the time like everyone else does,"

"Yeah, why do-"

"Got to stop his head from getting too big, you know? Rockstar and all that. Not the point. Point is… if you wanted-"

"I want to get this done," you interrupted and quickly scurried away to bury your head in the pack up.

…

You were sitting on the curb outside, watching equipment get loaded into the venue on trolleys.

"Hey, Baby Tech," Van's voice called. Your head spun and you watched him sit down next to you. Where had he come from?

"Hey. Why you here so early? Soundcheck isn't for ages," you asked. He shrugged and lit a cigarette.

Since it was made clear to you that Van acted differently around you and that presumably meant he liked you, you'd been avoiding him. In the deep desire to make it as a sound technician, you didn't even entertain the thought of liking Van back. Yes, he was perfect in every way a person could be. Yes, whenever his arm was draped over your shoulders you felt at ease and at home. Yes, he was partially responsible for giving you the life you wanted. But no, no it wasn't a good idea to turn your working friendship into anything else. You didn't want to fuck up the opportunity that had been handed to you.

He was sitting so, so close though. Your bare arms rubbed against the velvet of his jacket, making all the hair stand up. Each strand reached out of him like you couldn't, or more accurately, wouldn’t.

"Got nothing else on this morning. Woke up early. May as well come help," he replied. You watched the smoke escape from his nose and twirl up into the air before becoming invisible. "And, ah, wanted to catch up with you and ask something,"

"Really? A question? A question from you to me?" you replied quickly with a grin.

"Cheeky! But yeah, yeah, I know. I just… wanna know about people, you know? Especially pretty people,"

"I got told you don't care about how pretty people are,"

"Oh? You've been talking to someone 'bout me? And what I think of pretty people?" he asked, catching you in an admission. You smirked and looked away. "Anyway. I was gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner tomorrow night. Everyone has the day off and we'll be here a couple of nights, so, may as well get a proper meal in us, yeah?"

You knew exactly what he was asking but still wanted to be sure. Instead of getting that reassurance in a direct way, you said with calculation, "Yeah, definitely. Joe was talking about this burger place that does like, epic milkshakes and stuff. We could all go there?"

In Van's expression, you could see that he knew what you were doing. He wasn't stupid. He didn't hesitate or take his eyes off you. "Nah. Just us. On a date." You watched each other for a couple of seconds before he stood. "Do want a milkshake now but. Strawberry. I'll pick you up from ya room at 7 tomorrow, yeah?"

He started to walk off down the alley, clearly not ever intending on helping the crew. Taking dangerous backwards steps along the potholed road, he was waiting for you to agree.

"Okay, yeah," you said slowly. He gave you two thumbs up, turned around, and disappeared 

"Fuckin' told ya," Scotty called. You looked over at him. "Now get off your ass and help."

…

Arriving uncharacteristically on time, Van was dressed in his best button up and holding a bunch of dahlia flowers. He held them out enthusiastically. "For you," he said. You took them and smiled. Despite knowing the species didn't have a scent, you still put your nose into the petals and inhaled.

"They're beautiful. One minute."

With flowers in a hotel glass of tap water, a final check in the ensuite mirror, and a deep breath in, you left the room and followed Van down the hall and into the elevator.

"I like your dress. Haven't seen it before. Is it new?" he asked. On time - check. Flowers - check. Observant compliment - check. He was doing it by the book and you didn't know if it made you feel amused and comfortable, or anxious and unsure.

"No. Um. Yeah, you haven't seen it before. Haven't worn it yet. My mum said I should pack one nice thing, just in case, you know?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm honoured to be your just in case."

The date was a trashy reliving of your teenage years. Burgers, fries, and shakes. The back row of a cinema causing trouble with flying popcorn. You were kicked out within thirty minutes. "That was your fault!" Van said on the street, lighting a cigarette and laughing.

"Me?!"

"Yeah. I've never been kicked out of somewhere in my whole entire life, Y/N. I'm a good one, see. You're a bad influence."

He had thrown the first piece of popcorn and had been the one to argue with the man two seats in front. He was a troublemaker and trying to make you bite back. You shook your head and walked off down the street, listening to Van's booted footsteps quickly chase after you. Then, there were arcades bathed in a neon glow and a weird WWE game that Van was determined to beat you at.

"I've been the world lightweight champion since birth," you told him.

"Nah. No fucking way. Another round," he replied, eyes glued to the machine and fishing coins from his pocket.

As he settled into the night, Van let go of whatever guiding rules he was acting in accordance with. Still overflowing with warmth and consideration, he opened doors for you and held your hand as you walked from place to place. It was the weird formalities that were left behind and for that you were grateful. You liked him better when he ran amuck and caused a little chaos.

After eating churros on an easy-to-climb rooftop, you walked back to the hotel. With your back against the door to your room, you looked at him. The look on your face was a silent dare. It was a well-known fact that Van McCann did not back down from a dare.

…

Fear of being perceived as unprofessional melted away in the affection Van showed you. It was easy to like him a lot. A lot, a lot. Rushed kisses in soundcheck, songs sung entirely to you during shows, and late night hotel room visits, it was enough to take you from a crush to five-year plan that could only exist if Van was by your side. 

You never told him any of that though. Playing down your feelings seemed like a safer option. Less risk of heartbreak, you reasoned. Van was not like that. He wore his heart on his sleeve and was bold and reckless with his emotions. Everyone knew he loved you, even if you weren't willing to admit you were officially dating.

As he sat in a hotel chair, spine slowly sinking into it until he was basically horizontal, he glared at you.

"What?" you asked from where you were still bundled up in bed.

"Nothing," he replied. He ran his hand down the front of his white button up shirt.

"Nothing," you repeated, unconvinced. "Can you play me something? A lullaby?"

"It's seven in the morning,"

"A morning lullaby?"

He made a dramatic huffing sound but picked up the acoustic guitar that was against the wall next to him. He started to play a familiar melody, but changed the words to be about how you refused to be his girlfriend. Laughing, you threw a pillow across at him. He ignored the low-key violence and continued with his salty song.

…

"How come?!" Van whined again. You just rolled your eyes and continued to work on fixing a problem with one of the amps.

"I've gotta sort this out, Van,"

"Y/N! You're avoiding the question," he said. You stood up and gave him a look that should have been a warning but instead made him want you more.

"Fine. Sure. You can call me that," you snapped.

"No, but why don't you want me to,"

"I didn't say that. If I didn't want you to, I wouldn't have just given you permission,"

"Don't know if that really counts,"

"Then don't call me your girlfriend! I've got to fix this, Van," you said, throwing your hands in the air and returning to the floorboards of the stage.

"No. I will. You are my girlfriend,"

"Okay,"

"Don't seem too happy," he mumbled.

"Van, I swear to God-"

"Okay! Yep! I'm going. Thank you for fixing that. You're a good sound tech," he said quickly and just as quickly leant down and kissed your cheek before leaving you.

…

Halfway through the tour, you paid to have a hotel room to yourself for a night. Despite loving the rest of the crew, you needed space from them. Needed to hear only your own breathing as you fell asleep. Maybe even sleep semi-naked.

After the show was done and everything was packed up, you disappeared through the front door of the venue, unnoticed by any fans still waiting around. A couple hours later, just after 1 am, you had thought you'd got away with it. Then, a knock on the door.

Van, with his backpack and crooked smile. "Room to ourselves?" he asked sarcastically.

"To myself," you replied, not inviting him in.

"But we're boyfriend and girlfriend now." You didn’t want to smile, but you did. "Let me in?" Van whispered, stepping up to you and kissing the tip of your nose gently. "Please?"

You wanted to sleep, but you didn't.

The minutes rolled into hours as Van lost himself in the soft curves of your hips. You begged him to play you music, begged to hear something meant just for you. Sitting on your knees, you rested your head on Van's legs as he sat on the edge of the bed and strummed his guitar gently. It was a song that reminded you of Kintsugi, the Japanese tradition of mending broken china with golden glue, a song about history and respect and healing art.

…

You figured while there were no pressures of the real world, while you were on tour, that you and Van should and would have nothing to argue about. Well, that is what you figured after you had the first fight, when you were trying to work out what happened. Before the fight, the idea of one never popped into your head at all. Then, after, as you stood alone against the outside wall of the venue, fuming and hurt, you questioned it all. Honestly, you thought, what the fuck?

It wasn't clear who was at fault. Was it your own unrealistic expectations that had been the catalyst or should Van have been better? He was so annoyingly perfect that it was easy to expect him to be consistently like that, to expect him to never fuck up. But, he did. Catfish's opening band recruited a new roadie. Nobody seemed overly in love with the dude but you, in particular, couldn't warm to him. Then, alone on stage setting things up, he made a joke about you. Young, inexperienced, a girl. What were you doing in a job meant for someone else? Were you there to pick Van's clothes for him? Sit around and look pretty?

When you told Van, you had fully expected him to go in swinging. Instead, he laughed it off and said that you'd have to get used to worse if you wanted to survive in the industry. He said his own band and crew were beautiful exceptions to the rule. The rest of the world wouldn't treat you so kindly. It pissed you off and it started a fight and after storming from the venue, you wondered if you should be more angry at yourself or Van.

It was almost time for the show. The line out the front was pretty much gone, most people already inside and waiting. You knew you had a job to do, but your hands were shaking and every time you looked at the screen of your phone you felt a new wave of rage. His messages did little to comfort you. If Van really cared, he'd come outside and get you, you thought. Obviously, he couldn't. He'd be swamped by fans. He had to go stage any minute; you could hear the last few songs of the opening act play out in a heavy based echo through the wall.

When it started to rain, you bit the bullet and went back inside. Standing on the side of stage, you didn't commit to doing your actual job but instead watched Catfish play with a sad pride. Van glanced over and looked at you. He was sorry and you could see that. You wanted to talk; you wanted to explain that you were sorry too, he didn't have to be perfect all of the time. He was human and you were falling in love with him. All it took was one look to remind you of all that. 

As the others walked off stage, giving Van space to play a solo acoustic Hourglass, the first few notes sounded out across the venue. Instantly, everyone knew it wasn't Hourglass. Nobody knew what it was. Almost nobody. The song was the shimmering lacquer between the shards. As Van played your song, you sucked in your bottom lip and chewed hard. The hairs on your arms were standing, your body electric with the attention and moment. He was so, so fucking sorry, and you felt it.

…

Off stage and into your arms, you let Van mash his gross sweaty body and face into you. It was a needful thing. After, in the green room, you sat side by side drinking with everyone else. Maybe the post-fight conversation would happen eventually, but only if Van wanted. You were resolved and you were okay. More than okay. Your life had direction, you had a career waiting for you, you had friends and family, and a beautifully imperfect boyfriend.

When people emptied the room to pack up or head to pubs and hotels, only a few friends were left.

"So, what exactly do you do here, Y/N?" Larry asked with a smirk, obviously privy to the content of the fight and full of the same trouble making qualities as Van.

With his arm tightly wrapped around you, Van sniggered at his platonic soul mate, then nudged his head against yours.

"Oh, you know…" you started, looking at Van then back at Larry. "I'm mostly just here to keep Bondy in hats and Van out of them."


End file.
